Monday 17 June 2002 13.06 EDT
First published on Monday 17 June 2002 13.06 EDT

The agony My second week of cycling began on a misty day under a fine grey drizzle. The weather soon deteriorated and so did my luck.

I left Cheddar with a four-mile climb through the craggy limestone gorge onto the whaleback plateau of the Mendips. I covered 10 miles in excellent spirits, making good time along a flat lane so little used that grass grows along the middle of the track.

Then began a telltale juddering that signalled my first puncture, 230 miles into the trip. By this time it was pouring with rain and, as Murphy's Law dictates, the deflated wheel was the rear one, far more fiddly to remove and repair because of the gear mechanism. I surprised myself by changing the inner tube with little difficulty and only a minimum of cursing and, as far as the sheeting rain and gusting wind would permit, checked fruitlessly for whichever sharp object had caused the puncture.

Two miles down the lane I located the offending glass shard in my tyre when it punctured the brand new inner tube I had just fitted. Practice makes perfect, and I fixed the second puncture quickly, but with considerably more swearing this time. By now drenched to the bone and caked in mud, I discovered miserably that an error in my route calculations meant an unexpected extra 10 miles on the day's journey. Not much fun.

The ecstasy Things began to look up when I reached the village of Chew Magna, south of Bristol. In a charming pub the sun dried my sodden clothes and England's World Cup victory over Argentina raised my flagging spirits. The improvement in my fortune was sealed by the kindness of George and Mary, my B&B hosts for the night in Thornbury, Avon, who washed my filthy kit and drove me to a smart hotel to meet my friend Helen for dinner.

Since then I've experienced something of a cycling miracle. For 250 miles, from the Mendips as far as Bolton, my route has been virtually flat and I've averaged four to five hours' cycling a day for 40 miles.

The topography of this section was not lost on my wily friend Thom, who opted to join me for a couple of days' easy freewheeling across the Severn Bridge and along the beautiful Wye Valley to Ross and Ludlow. The route took us past Tintern, whose ruined abbey is conveniently located close enough to the road to allow lazy tourists like me to take a picture without even dismounting. We made a detour to Symonds Yat, where a vantage point affords superb views of the River Wye and of peregrine falcons nesting on the cliffs.

Just outside Leominster on Sunday morning the skies opened again and we were given shelter in a pub that - because of Britain's archaic Sunday licensing laws - had to lock us in with our coffee and biscuits at 11am. Bless.

The parents At Ludlow my parents joined me for a couple of days. Through a stroke of appalling bad luck both their bikes were at the menders, and they had forgotten to pack their padded Lycra shorts, so they contented themselves with driving alongside me shouting encouragement from their large, comfortable car.

At Ironbridge we admired the world's first iron structure of its kind, built in 1779. Throughout Shropshire we marvelled in equal measure at the fine 17th century half-timbered buildings and the impossibility of finding dinner on a Sunday or Monday night.

The urban sprawl Heading north into Cheshire and Greater Manchester my route remained flattish but the cycling became significantly less enjoyable. That corner of Britain has more motorways than any other, and I crossed in quick succession the M6, M56, M62 and M61. Skirting between Warrington and Manchester my route was largely urban and the roads busy. Where there are fields they tend to be surrounded by barbed wire, making it tricky in some areas even to answer nature's call.

En route I had the misfortune to spend a night in Leigh, a truly unpleasant town of boarded up shopfronts and pound stores. The proprietress of my (perfectly nice) bed and breakfast laughed out loud when I enquired about restaurants. Her hotel has been booked out for the duration of next month's Commonwealth Games in Manchester by relatives of the Australian bowling team. I hope they like take-aways.

All things must end, even Greater Manchester, and once I'd passed Bolton I found myself climbing again, up onto open moorland with fine views. After I pass Blackburn the map again becomes gloriously empty of towns and main roads. Next stop, the Lancashire fells. Let leg pain recommence.